A Thousand Phantoms Strong
by Quaeitur
Summary: A simple fic, in which I ask readers to come up with halfa OCs from around the world and across time and let me write one shots about them. If you want to see OCs from other nations, other times, and other backgrounds than the fandom standard, I will gladly write them. Currently accepting submissions. Chapters will have individual warnings as/if needed and be individually rated.
1. Chapter 1

In a grand tradition of trying to undo my own writer's block, I hereby volunteer to do oneshots about other people's OCs. Why? Well, I think OCs are under too much fire, for one thing – they're not all Mary Sues and shouldn't be treated as such an awful thing. For another, OCs force an author to consider the expanded universe of the show and write outside the main cast.

However, to prevent a flood of OCs, since I can only do so many things at once, there are some **ground rules**.

**The first** is that your character cannot be racist, sexist, religiously intolerant, homophobic or in any other way prejudice against any group. I do not exist to write things that put others down.

**The second** is that I ask you get creative. Really, truly creative and unorthodox characters are the most interesting there are. This whole challenge hinges on a _world_ of halfas. Think globally and think historically. This is about halfa men and women from many places and times. Don't be afraid to submit a character from a culture or time and place I'm not familiar with – I'll research it before I write.

**The third** rule is that you need to understand all chapters will be independent of each other and self-contained. There will be no sequels. One character, one chapter.

If you're still interested after all that, please review with the following form, be it anonymously or signed-in, and we'll get rolling. All chapters will be posted in order the reviews were received, so if you're third in line, please refrain from barraging me with PMs when I do your predecessors first. This is the only fair way I know to fill these.

**Form**

Name:

Age:

Date Of Birth:

Year Of Story:

Race, Religion And Ethnicity:

Location:

Family:

Powers:

Appearance:

Ghost Appearance:

Personality: (Please give me no less than ten sentences here.)

Life History: (Same as above, ten sentences minimum.)


	2. Zane

**AN:** Kelsey Spirit, please fill out the form in full so that I have enough to work with. I won't reject anyone, but the form is not a negotiable point. Think of things you want to see in this character's one shot. Think of who you imagine them as. Feel free to resubmit at your leisure.

Here's my first shot, and I'm hoping I did it justice.

* * *

The streets of Paris were beautiful, but deceptively so. The cold was biting, the wind ripping at people with all the force it could muster, and Zane reached up to grab his hat before it flew away, his grip on the black fedora with its stylish white stripe secure.

It was hauntingly cold, the kind of out-of-season weather that make everything sparkle with surprising beauty. There wasn't anything Zane found repulsive about anywhere; in his travels he had found that most places held a kind of inherent goodness to them. He had learned that there was no need to rush and no need to make assumptions about anything. There were some stylishly dressed Parisians that gave him looks, since his attire was very American. His black and red V neck T-shirt, black jeans and blue Nikes weren't suited to the cold, but it was refreshing to feel the crisp air around him. Paris was a place of people and sounds and smells, an assault of the senses, and he didn't want to miss a thing.

Technology had changed so much. Even now, he didn't know whether to stare or pass on by. There were rumors of a ghost named Clockwork who might be able to get him back home, but he had failed in finding the specter, and was growing resigned to the fact that he was never going to see the failure fashions and people of 1976 again. It was hard, made more bearable by staying far from his hometown of Vallahn, but the pang of loss pierced through his laid back personality like a precision strike. All around him were signs of a future he had never wanted to see, not like this.

He bought a coffee and a pastry whose name he couldn't pronounce and found a bench to sit on. It wasn't like Zane didn't have a good life. He liked days like this and the places he saw. Positivity was how he survived. The problem was simply that he missed his siblings, his parents, and he had never meant to leave them. It would have been cruel to just walk out on them. All he'd wanted to do was fly.

In retrospect he should have known something was wrong. The amulet he had gotten was septarian stone with solid silver inlays. There was a reason the shop keeper was so eager to part with it. The energy that had flooded him left him out cold, awaking to find a man in the mirror he could scarcely believe was him. His usual fro-hawk had been turned the rust red of his eyes, which had white irises along with blackened whites. And then there was the outfit, which left him wondering how a hunk of rock knew his name, among other things. There was a black and blue jacket, with matching pants and sturdy black boots. On his sleeves were his initials, ZB, and on the back were his full initials, ZNB. He'd stared at the amulet he'd bought for a long time, uncertain how it could have done this to him. Then he'd gone to grab it and had risen off the floor.

Flying was a joy unlike any other. He had a competitive spirit, an active energy, but to fly was to find peace and exhilaration all at once. It was everything fun in the world, until he found he could make objects out of the same energy that transformed him. He could become a knight, dueling in glowing armor with a mace and chain. For a while he'd held out so much hope that he could take this blessing God had given him and do something amazing.

And then he'd been out flying and fallen into the future.

He finished his food and looked around, wondering what odd job he could find to support himself this time. Zane was not a lazy boy, despite a calm disposition; he was not afraid to work. So long as the person was a good one, it didn't matter that the work was hard. He was happy to have something to do to fill his days inbetween searching for Clockwork and fighting ghosts. Although he didn't want to fight them, and knew he wasn't the best at it, Zane would always rise to the challenge. He made his way down the cold streets, shivering but grateful that he might be able to find a job shoveling snow, make some good money today. Call him an optimist, but he wasn't going to let the way things had happened break him down.

It was at this point that a ghost's ectoplasmic blast hit the ground, streaking above the heads of several innocent bystanders. He whipped around, ghost sense going off, but the ghost above darted around, a gray and green blur. Gritting his teeth, he dove for an alley. His competitive spirit reared its head. He was fast, even with his mace. And more importantly, he was the only one here to handle this. Taking to the air, the blur slammed into him and flew by, a smear against the sky. He focused on the anger he felt seeing bystanders scatter, mothers clutching their children to them and elderly people shaking.

A mace requires practice to be effective. It takes laser like focus and balance. Zane could do both, and did, because he was not merely a victim of ghostly forces, not a helpless bystander in the future. He was a halfa, and he was a fighter. Even as his side screamed out in pain from the hit of the lightning fast ghost, the icy wind cutting into his skin, he took aim and slammed his mace around it, the chains tangling the ghost's feet, and they both plummeted to the ground below under the force of it.

They crashed through a house, and once he got his footing, Zane flung the startled ghost back into the air where the ghost portal in the sky swallowed it and closed. Sinking to his knees, he felt a shudder run through him as he transformed. A cough from the doorway made him realize he was standing in the middle of someone's demolished living room. He'd done worse, but having a family of four staring at him, he could only smile sheepishly.

"Er, parle vous Englais, by any chance? I can explain."


End file.
